Far From the Tree
by FanficwriterGHC
Summary: How could anyone be better than the image in his head? Meeting anyone but the head of the CIA would be a let down. A co-authored story from Chezchuckles and FanficwriterGHC.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Far From the Tree**

**Disclaimer: And no ownership was won, stolen, or sold. Just borrowed.**

**Author's Note: **A co-authored story by **Chezchuckles** and **FanficwriterGHC**.

* * *

><p>"What if he's fat?" Ryan chuckled.<p>

"Yeah, or bald. Oh, man, what if that's in your future, Castle?" Esposito exclaimed, bumping his fist with his partner's. "What if those silky locks are just itching to start falling out?"

"Ha ha," Castle grumbled playfully, though Kate heard something off in his voice as she approached the three of them, standing around the table in the break room, drinking victory coffee without her. "Very funny."

"Would you still find him attractive without hair, Beckett?" Ryan asked with a grin as Castle handed her a cup of coffee, shuffling over so that she had room to stand next to him.

Kate took a sip and shot Castle a small smile—perfect, as always. He smiled back, but the little spark in his eyes had fallen out. "Why are we talking about Castle's hair, or the possible lack-there-of?" she volleyed back, feeling the side of his foot press against hers in response.

"Well, Castle's meeting his Dad," Esposito shrugged with a small grin. "And I mean, if he's bald, well, doesn't that just bode well for our little media darling?"

Kate glanced over at Castle, watching as he put on a false smile, narrowing his eyes at Esposito. "At least I still have some."

"Hey, I can grow it back," Espo argued, puffing out his chest.

Kate shook her head. "Good close," she cut in, stopping their little machismo fest. Castle was being, well, Castle about it all, but there was just something to the tightness of his eyes while he joked around that made Kate want to stop the teasing. And she was usually such a fan of picking on him.

"Very," Ryan grinned. "Two days, four leads, and wham."

They clinked mugs and Kate let herself relax. It was good to feel that sense of closure. The case had been quick, but a bit brutal, with one throat slit and two women beaten. Their culprit, George Drathem, hadn't been the smartest of abusive guys, and had fled to a brother's house in New Jersey, pretty close to the bridge. Finding him had been easy, and getting the confession only took half an hour; he had been eager to take anything they would give him, once he realized that he wasn't going to get away.

Through it all, Castle had been in high spirits. But there was an underlying tension, a sort of fluttering that settled there under the surface. She didn't really blame him; meeting your long-lost father certainly deserved a certain amount of anxiety. He'd yet to say anything about it though, and more often than not, the meet-up had been the butt of jokes and jibes, rather than anything substantial. She watched him sit there, trying to figure him out. And he called her a mystery.

"Drinks tonight?" Esposito asked a few minutes later, when everyone had slumped, leaning against the counter or sagging into the rickety chairs around their sorry little table.

"I've got the…meet up," Castle said quietly. For the first time all day, Esposito and Ryan seemed to tune in. "But," he continued, turning a disarming smile on them that had the boys bouncing back to, well, boyish, instantly. "You guys feel free to take over the Haunt. In fact, play a few rounds of pool for me while you're at it."

Kate watched as he joked around with the guys for a few minutes, quietly sipping her coffee until his ring tone broke up the fun. With a quick, "excuse me," Castle was up and out of the room, talking hastily into his phone. She looked over at the guys, who seemed caught between curiosity and boisterous spirits.

"You gonna come with us, Beckett?" Ryan asked, readjusting his tie. "Have at least one half at the Haunt?"

"You saying I'm not a complete person without Castle, Ryan?" she said, giving him a steely look but exchanging glances with Esposito, who was trying not to laugh.

"No, not at all. I…oh, hey, look, gotta check in with Jenny!" he said hurriedly, checking his watch after making his statement, and then jetting out of the room.

"You'd think your glare wouldn't work on him after all this time," Esposito observed, stretching before standing to plop his cup into the sink. They never did their dishes, and yet, they were always clean the next day. Kate wondered if one of the night on-calls had a penchant for scrubbing.

"Are you saying that you've outgrown the fear, Esposito?"

He narrowed his eyes, puffed out his chest, and promptly spun around to leave the room. Kate laughed quietly and dumped her now-empty mug into the sink full of dishes, running some water over them for whoever washed them. She'd have to take a turn someday. It was only fair. But now she had more important things to do, like finding her partner. He wasn't sitting in his chair, but his jacket was still flung lazily across the back.

Ryan and Espo were closing up shop for the night, so she gave them a nod and wandered down the hall toward the bathrooms. She couldn't really explain it, but she didn't think Castle had picked up a normal call, and he'd completely lost his grin by the time he'd cleared the doorway. And though not usually one for hovering, this time, something just felt off.

She rounded the corner past the bathrooms and came to a halt. There, slumped down on the floor, knees pulled up, cell tossed haphazardly next to him, head back against the wall, was Richard Castle, looking more haggard than she could ever remember him being. Alright, maybe only second to that day he'd come to her bedside to bring her flowers, and she'd turned him away.

* * *

><p>Castle rotated his head back and forth on his neck, tried not to feel her eyes on him. He wanted nothing more than to hole up in his study for five hours and write, escape a little, but he had this...meeting...tonight, and still, he was loath to leave Kate here alone.<p>

Not that she needed him for paperwork. Not that she needed him at all. Not that anyone needed him lately-

"Castle."

He dropped his head and turned to look at her, that softness around her eyes that he'd come to love. He saw it even this far down the hallway, in the way she crossed her arms over her chest and paused there, the way her hip jutted out as if she was leaning his way.

Only tonight, he didn't want to see it there; he wanted it to be like it usually was between them. If he could just have everyone be normal-

"Castle. Your...father."

He hated having conversations halfway down the hall, but he didn't move. The phone call from his mother, and then-

That animal in his chest started gnawing away at his ribs again; Castle dropped his eyes, studied the lines of tile in the floor. After a long moment, he heard her walking his way, and then she slumped down on the floor beside him, her shoulder against his.

He gave her what he hoped was a smile and lifted his hand from the floor, waved her away. "Can we not...talk about that?"

When he lifted his eyes to finally look at her, her face had moved from tender to shocked. He wondered...oh, well, he rarely withheld from her, did he? She was surprised by it now. She shouldn't be, he thought bitterly. Only so much a man could confess, only so many ways he could bare his soul before he started catching on that it wasn't wanted.

"Oh-okay." Her shoulder shifted against his, away, and he felt the chill of the floor rise up into his bones.

Castle put his hands to the floor, prepared to stand. "Actually, I'm going to head home, if that's okay with you-"

"No," she said, into the cold space he felt around him. His eyes flickered over to hers. "No, it's not okay."

"What?" He fell back to his haunches on the floor, staring at her.

She caught his sleeve with her fingers. Her eyes were tight. "It's not okay. Give me ten minutes, and I can come with you. Get some dinner before?"

Something stirred in him, a different beast, and he had to avert his eyes. He studied the floor between his clasped hands, tried to detect the pattern of flecks in the tile, tried to calm the need that rose up in him, stronger than the rest of it—the need for her.

"Okay," he said finally, giving in. He had a few hours to kill anyway.

He heard her breathe out, a long sigh, and when he lifted his eyes, he saw the shade of insecurity cast over her face. Like she thought he might not say yes.

She should know by now. He could never refuse her.

* * *

><p>She switched off her computer with twitching fingers, unnerved by Castle's behavior. He sat quietly in his chair, hands still, phone in his pocket, eyes fixed somewhere on the back wall through the metal mesh. He'd asked her to drop it, and she'd refused. For all the times he'd pushed her into opening up, how could he expect less? She'd hoped that they'd been making progress—that he was starting to understand that she was trying—but maybe they'd made less than she'd hoped.<p>

"You ready?" she asked as she slipped into her jacket. Tonight didn't seem like the night to offer him the opportunity to help.

He nodded and followed her as she led them out of the bullpen and over to the elevator, pushing the button. Maybe if she got him out of the precinct, plied him with some good wine, and got him his favorite dinner, he'd loosen up. It occurred to her, as they silently rode the elevator to the floor, that a sullen, anxious Castle was a beast she didn't know how to tame. She could reign in his childish wonder, could channel his energy, could help him make the best of everything he had to offer, but this—this was different. And he was so damn good at helping her get out of a funk.

"So," she said tentatively when they hit the street, the cold air assaulting them, personifying the bubble he'd created, a few feet away from her, hands in his pockets. "Mr. Chow?"

He looked over at her, finally, and she fought the urge to turn away and start walking. He was staring at her like he was divining secrets from her pink cheeks and tired eyes, and any information he gleaned tonight could be dangerous. He was throwing her off, making it harder to keep herself in check.

"Chow sounds good," he offered. She waited until he'd taken a few steps to meet her before turning around, guiding them up the street.

She regretted the decision to walk two blocks into the five block hike. It was cold, freezing, and the silence between them wasn't helping. But she could fix that as well as he could.

"How's Alexis?" she asked, deciding to start with neutral family-related topics before diving in. The least she could do was to get him some food before she forced him to discuss a painful topic. He generally did the same for her, after all.

He shot her a glance and she caught the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "She's good. Waiting very impatiently for those decision letters."

Kate felt her own sympathetic smile creeping across her face. "I remember that. It's not fun."

"No," Castle chuckled, the sound warming her down to her toes, like he'd handed her coffee. Oh my, she was in a sorry state tonight, wasn't she? "It's not fun for anyone involved."

"It'll be over soon," she consoled him, reaching out to pat his arm.

They both stiffened, and she wondered if it was just tonight, or if they still hadn't passed this little barrier. Hell, at the wedding, they'd spent half the night wrapped around each other, and that had been a little over three weeks ago. She wouldn't retract her hand, not tonight, not when he needed support. And they'd damn well just have to get over themselves.

Withholding an aggravated sigh—at her, at him, at them, at the wall, at the case, at the cold—she settled her hand into the crook of his elbow and guided him around the corner on the last block. "Almost there," she mumbled, her breath rising in a white puff in front of them.

"Steely Detective Beckett ultimately falls victim to the 30 degree weather," he teased, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She'd hit him, but she was just glad that he was in there somewhere, beneath the anxiety and sullen demeanor.

"As I recall, we've both weathered worse than this," she fired back, a little unsure of her response, but proud of it all the same.

The shudder that coursed through his body at the thought made her rethink her statement. But then he turned his head and met her eyes. "Feel free to cuddle up at dinner, Detective. I hear I'm pretty good at staving off frostbite."

She pursed her lips to keep from smiling and gave his elbow a squeeze as they reached the doors. She let her hand fall and then beat him to the handle, holding the door open for her partner. To his credit, Castle took it well, giving her a playful smile before entering and holding open the next door for her. She hoped it was a sign (though, of course, she didn't believe in those). She opened one door, he the other. Equal.

* * *

><p>"This your kind of place, Beckett?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows at the woman across from him, then reading the menu aloud to her. "Gold Leaf Sieu Mai garnished with 24 carat gold and shark's fin. Really?"<p>

When he looked back at her, she was smirking. "Maybe. Who knows. A little 24 carat gold with my dinner-"

"I somehow doubt it," he laughed, feeling for the first time that strange release of tension in his chest, flowing out as he looked at her.

She smiled at him, so brilliant it dazzled, teeth and a wide mouth, thinning lips. Her tongue came to the back of her teeth; he could just see the pink tip at her canine.

That helped too, and he realized with a measure of bewilderment that his smile had been her goal. He let his lids lower as he looked back down at the menu. "Ooh, this sounds good, Beckett. Gamblers Duck—a contrast of tender and crispy served with pancakes & plum sauce."

"You're all about pancakes, aren't you, Castle?"

And that did it too, made it easier, the whole thing. Just that teasing note to her voice and the way she kept looking over at him, as if to gauge his reaction.

The waiter came over to place glasses of water on the table in front of them, and Castle took the opportunity to gesture towards him. "I've got the check-"

"Castle-"

He held the waiter's eyes long enough for the man to nod, to see his absolute seriousness, and then the man turned to Beckett and offered humble apologies, asking if they wanted any appetizers.

Beckett frowned over the table at him, but this place was expensive, and while it had been her suggestion, he wanted...wanted to do something good. Before he had to face the bar, the drink with a man he didn't know. Didn't want to know.

She must have seen it his eyes because she sent the waiter away by asking for more time. "Castle. This was my suggestion-"

"Because you're trying to make me feel better. I know. I get it. And if you're gonna go to all this trouble, then the least I can do is pay."

"Castle-" She shook her head slowly, lifted her fingers to her bottom lip, her mouth pressed tightly together. He loved that line down her forehead, the tendon of tension or concentration that knit her eyebrows together and always seemed to precede a breakthrough in a case. Or a talking to.

"Let me have this one," he said quietly, and he let her see it in his eyes. The need and the flicker of anguish that had taken up in his guts the moment his mother told him.

"Castle," she murmured, and he really hoped that wasn't pity.

He glanced down to the menu, tried to ignore the sick slide of his guts every time he thought about later tonight.

"Okay, two ways to go here, Castle."

He looked up, startled by the factual, no-nonsense tone of her voice.

"We can talk about how you're going to meet your father tonight. Or we can ignore it for the rest of dinner, pretend like it's not going to happen. Which are you going to choose?"

Put like that, it made him sound a little cowardly, to hide behind polite conversation and banal small talk. He sighed and traced the rim of his water glass with a finger, debating.

Who else could he talk to but her? This woman who wanted to take him to Mr. Chow's to nudge him out of his funk, this woman with the smiles that made his whole being feel lighter, this woman who had her own issues to deal with but had let him near enough to her heart to make a place for him.

"We can talk about it," he said finally.

* * *

><p>"And what will you be having?" their waiter asked, watching as both Kate and Castle quickly glanced at their menus.<p>

She hadn't expected him to pay, and therefore hadn't been planning on ordering anything elaborate. Now that he was picking up the check, nothing changed. "I'll have the Mr. Chow Noodles, please," she said, handing the server her menu.

She watched as Castle gave the menu a last fleeting glance, his face solemn. She almost felt bad about pushing the issue—almost. If he wasn't talking to her about it, she could probably safely assume that he wasn't talking to anyone about it. She doubted that he'd be talking to Martha about his father, especially since what she'd gleaned in the little he'd told her gave her the feeling that Martha had been withholding the information for a long time. And he'd never burden Alexis with something like that.

"I'll have the Shanghai Little Dragon," Castle decided, handing his list over. The waiter nodded and disappeared, leaving them alone in the little booth, in the dark restaurant. It was the perfect setting for a romantic dinner, but it wasn't, and they weren't, and she had more important things to think about.

Castle fiddled with his napkin for a minute while Kate tried to bolster up the courage for a final push. He looked up and she stopped racking her brain for a solution. He'd talk all on his own. Though, if the reluctance on his face was anything to go by, he might finally understand what it was like to be on her side of the line. The thought didn't seem like such a victory, staring at his tired face.

"He's an actor," he said quietly, hand still toying with his napkin. "Charlie Sykes." Kate almost wished the name were familiar, but there was something comforting as well with knowing that she'd never heard of the man. He hadn't had enough success to be a huge star, with money and means to support a family. "He's a wash-up now, but he was pretty big then. They met in some Shakespeare production…I honestly didn't pay too much attention."

Kate watched him sigh and fought the urge to reach over and still his hand on the table. He sounded resigned, a little angry, and there was a tremor of well suppressed hurt beneath it all—hurt he'd buried under a staunch belief that it didn't matter. She wondered how much of that was for show, and how much he believed.

"He was about four years older than her, and she was still naive—her words not mine. But she loved him, that night, she says."

Kate unglued her mouth, wanting to ask a question, direct, pointed, to help him through it. "Did he know?"

Castle shook his head. "Mother never told him."

Kate watched as he began to ball the napkin up on the table. Her own hand shot out to still his, in a move it was obvious neither was expecting. They both twitched, her smaller hand over his large one, fingers digging into the small swatch of palm she could reach. But then his eyes met hers and the gratitude there spurred her into motion.

Her fingers smoothed over his palm and she watched in a kind of fascination as his hand turned over and held onto hers. She raised her eyes to meet his and found him relaxed across from her, mouth caught somewhere between tension and a grateful smile. All she'd done was touch his hand—now hold his hand. She was momentarily stunned by how much the gesture meant to him.

"And you're…how do you…are you okay?" she stumbled out. Eloquent.

He gave a rueful laugh. "Before she told me he'd figured it out and contacted her? I couldn't have cared less. Never had one, never needed one, and I was actually okay with that, you know?"

She didn't, but she wasn't about to take that away from him too. It made sense, but knowing what it was like to live with a gaping hole in her life, she couldn't imagine being perfectly fine with not having a father. Then again, it wasn't as though his had been ripped from him. Rather, now, his was being thrust on him. She wondered if it vaguely resembled the same feeling—that the world had shifted, perhaps without the grief, but tilted and unstable all the same. She squeezed his hand and he shot her a tired smile.

"And now, I just—how can I not go meet him? He wants to know me. And I want…" he trailed off and she studied his face. She knew that glint in his eyes that was so dull tonight, but still there, burning behind the apprehension and confusion.

"The story," she said quietly.

* * *

><p>Of course he did. And it killed him.<p>

The story.

"What I really want to do is go home and not deal with it. How's that for healthy?"

She made a movement with her hand, still curled around his, but it was a jerk of her arm that made her palm slip away, her fingers slide through his and hit the table. Castle looked down, a lick of breathless arousal shocking through him at the way their fingers intertwined, the feel of her thin digits between his, intimate in a way he'd never imagined hand-holding could be.

Well, they weren't exactly holding hands, not with just their fingers meshed together, but-

And then his brain cleared somewhat and he realized what he'd said, and to whom he had said it.

"Yeah," she murmured then, and her fingers twitched in his but didn't withdraw. "Running away and hiding sounds more like me, Castle. Not you."

He lifted his eyes to hers, ready to apologize, but he saw a lingering amusement in her gaze. She let him see it, then she was pressing her lips together in that barely suppressed smile, shifting back in the booth.

She still didn't move her hand away. In fact, her fingers had curled somewhat so that her grip on his was tighter.

In a fit of perverse and stubborn pride, Castle rotated his wrist, spreading his fingers wide enough to flip his hand around so that their palms pressed together, then he relaced their fingers. Because he wanted to. Because he had to go meet his long-lost father in a couple of hours and he really just wanted to hold Kate Beckett's hand.

She gave him a long look, deadly still, and he set his jaw against it, prepared to fight for this. He'd been patient; he'd been waiting for her, for whatever this was, and if he couldn't get a little sympathy hand-hold, then what the hell-

"All right," she drawled and lifted an eyebrow at him. "So. You want the story. Do you think that will help?"

"No," he sighed. "It will only make things worse."

"Worse?" Her one-word question held a trace of worry in it, curiosity yes, but a tinge of latent anxiety. Over him?

"Knowing the real story means...means he's not an astronaut. Not a spy for MI-6. Not an expert in Krav Maga. Not a tax attorney moonlighting as a tattoo artist. Not-"

"Okay, Castle," she said softly, her fingers squeezing his, their palms meeting with a kiss of warm skin to warm skin. "I get it."

He glanced out into the restaurant, watched the waiters circling, the slowly-filling tables, the patrons talking and eating. When he was six or so, he used to look for a father in every public place, pick one out of the crowd, imagine the life that particular man was leading based on his coat, his briefcase, his subway stop, his car, his dandruff, his glasses-

"I played a game." Castle paused, found his eyes inexorably pulled back to the woman sitting attentively across from him. "I told myself stories. Those stories led to this, where I am now. So I don't like...it doesn't feel right to invalidate all the stories I told myself with-" He shrugged, unable to continue.

"With the truth?"

Castle dropped his eyes to their hands, realized with some dawning horror that he'd been stroking the ridge of her thumb, the side of her palm, for who knew how long now. Over and over. Her skin was soft, softer than he expected for a woman who was combat-trained and carried a gun.

"You're the one who always wants the better story, Castle. Who shuffles around the facts to fit your crazy theories-"

"One of these days, Beckett, it really will be CIA assassins. I swear to you."

"I hope we're both around to see that."

"Even if we're old folks sitting in our rockers on our front porch-"

"You first," she interjected, lifting an eyebrow.

Now she was making old man jokes? And still holding his hand. Her palm was a furnace against his; their skin kept glancing off each other's, the friction of fingers adjusting, curling, squeezing.

"So long as you get there eventually," he remarked, softer and more pointed than he meant it to be. But true nonetheless.

He dropped his eyes to the table to keep from having to look at her, see whatever gentle rebuff might be in that closed mouth, that calm gaze.

"You won't have to wait long."

Castle's eyes darted up, met the blazing conviction in her look. He echoed the squeezing of his heart with the tight curl of his fingers against her hand, holding on to her.

Holding on to that promise.

* * *

><p>Her eyes, which had migrated away from his face and to the waiter who appeared with their food, silent and unassuming, snapped back to his as Castle thanked the younger gentleman. They accepted their food and then sat, glances darting from plates, to forks, to fingers, seemingly on the same wavelength. Kate was fine to eat with her right hand, and as soon as she picked up her fork, he did as well. She watched him feed himself rather admirably, both content to sit in silence for a few minutes.<p>

When his palm started sweating against hers, she decided that there were more questions to ask—questions that could help, rather than hurt. "Do you know what you want to say?" she asked, watching as he paused to take a sip of water, fingers loosening around hers, as if he were bracing himself, retracting just a hair.

"Beyond, 'Hi, I'm Richard Castle, your son. Nice to meet you?'" He gave her a small smile for that one. "I guess I'll let him lead, ask about his life, whether or not I have...siblings." The smile fell and this time she tightened her grip around his fingers, bringing their warm, slightly sticky palms back together.

"Did you want a younger sibling like I did for a while?" she asked, smiling as he stared at her, half delighted, half surprised. She'd been sharing much more of herself recently, but she knew that he still marveled at every new kernel of information.

"Sometimes," he admitted, lifting a shoulder. "Not once I got old enough to make friends at the schools I was at. Not after Damien," he trailed off again and she gave a mental sigh. There was no winning tonight. Though, as his thumb brushed the back of her palm, she had to amend that thought.

"But now?" she prompted, bringing his eyes back from their hands.

He sighed quietly. "Now I'm not sure if I want them, or who they'd be, or what they'd want from me. Figuring out who wants what is hard enough when they're not suddenly related to you."

She couldn't remember ever hearing him so candid, so honest, so raw. Only that day in the cemetery could possibly compete, his face hazy and eyes glistening against the pain in her chest and the struggle to breathe. "Castle," she said, the name all she could give him.

He bobbed his head and then shook it, lips pursed, thinking. "There's every likelihood that he just needs money, you know?"

Oh, Castle. "He might just want to get to know you," she said gently. They looked at each other and his hand squeezed hers. It was a role reversal, to sit here and be the optimist against his realist—a realism that could very well be exactly what he'd face later in the evening.

"I hope so." The words were soft, almost under his breath, and his eyes migrated back down to his plate. He hadn't eaten much, though neither had she. And the dim, dark lighting, the deep red curtains, the soft music—it became oppressive. It fed into this mood, these thoughts she wished she could take from him.

"If it is about...money," he continued, closing his eyes against whatever scenario he had built up in his head. "Then it'll go back to normal. He'll be some guy who needed something, and the whole thing won't mean anything after tonight."

Oh jeez, Castle. "I..." she began, but his look silenced her attempt.

"I have the family I need," he said, forcing a smile, his eyes boring into hers. "Working on some final pieces, but he isn't one of them."

Her heartbeat quickened and a rush of what were definitely butterflies erupted in her stomach. But there was pain for him too, with the knowledge that he expected this to go poorly, expected to write his father a check and then write him out of his life. It was strange, to see a man so confident, so cocky, so full of life and exuberance, reduced to this—to the child who grew up without something he probably never knew he wanted, who turned into a man who expected it to disappoint, like so many other things and people had.

His fingers twitched between hers and conviction surged through her. She could not be one of those disappointments, not if she was a last piece to the strange puzzle of his family.

* * *

><p>He'd probably said too much. That was how things were going for him lately. Too much and not enough, too late and too soon.<p>

His timing was way off, he thought with a self-deprecating laugh. She raised her head, looking at him funny for that, but he shrugged her off, felt his hand tug in hers.

Oh, well. She still had a hold on him. So it couldn't be that bad.

"What if he doesn't want money?" she said suddenly, leaning in towards him across the table.

Her eyes were so intense, so dark in the close confines of the poorly-lit restaurant. Although, he supposed poorly-lit was meant to be romantic, but he was having trouble reconciling romanticism with his current state of affairs.

Or should that be lack of affairs?

God, he was morose tonight. Not fit company for anyone.

"Castle."

His eyes had strayed from hers, he realized, as he shifted his gaze back to her. Just the line of gentle inquiry in her mouth, the patience in those brown depths—it helped. It did something to him, almost like her look was a physical touch.

"If he doesn't want money," Castle said slowly. He stalled because he had no idea. What did you do with a man who hadn't ever bothered?

"Are you...interested in knowing him?"

No.

But he shrugged, figuring he should temper his response with some caution, or perhaps some compassion at the very least. But he'd long ago-

"No?" she queried, as if she could read his mind, as if she saw every thought at the back of his eyes.

And she just might. She was spooky good at this stuff—the interrogation stuff. She was a master at it. Hadn't Captain Montgomery told him that once?

Oh. Oh, damn. That's what this was. A persuasive technique. A way to get him to talk. She cared, of course she cared, or otherwise she wouldn't be pushing him to answer her questions, but she didn't...the hand-holding, the tenderness, the shimmer in her eyes—those weren't true. Those were props to help move him along.

That made more sense. A lot more sense than the idea that Beckett was somehow revealing something of herself to him, lifting the veil, letting him creep into the holy of holies.

There was still a wall.

Castle squeezed her fingers once, in understanding, and slid his hand away from hers, his heart sinking as he did, but realizing it was for the best.

He heard her startled breath, but didn't look at her. He wasn't sure he could keep it hidden any longer, not tonight, and the disappointment of it-

"Castle," she said, some urgency in her voice.

He studied his plate, but couldn't bring himself to lift his fork and pretend he was at all hungry.

"Castle, you're not eating; I'm not eating. Let's get out of here."

He startled, glancing at her, saw the way her eyebrows knitted together, the thin veneer in her eyes that whitewashed whatever was back there. "What?"

"Let's get out of here. Do something fun. We won't think about it, won't talk about it. Okay?"

He opened his mouth but couldn't find anything to say. He stared at her.

"Castle. Pay the check."

Yes. Okay. The check.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Far from the Tree**

**Disclaimer: And they, the two, overthrew the entire ABC studio and gained power. And then woke up, from a weirdly connected dream.**

**Author's Note: **A co-authored story by **Chezchuckles** and **FanficwriterGHC**.

* * *

><p>She couldn't for the life of her figure out what she'd done wrong. Just as she'd had this huge revelation, which had left her reeling even as he paid the check and slipped his card back into his wallet, his eyes had clouded over, and he'd pulled his hand away.<p>

She stood and slipped into her coat, watching him, his hooded eyes, sunken face, slumped shoulders. He was radiating defeat and she just didn't know why. She'd thought she was proving something to him, with the eye contact and the hands, and honestly how could he have missed it when it crossed her face? But he took no notice, made no admission, didn't jump right in when she was weak, with that sixth sense he'd catered to her.

Then again, as she watched him slide his own jacket up his arms, perhaps he was just too preoccupied. Beckett-sense probably took a lot of concentration. This new-found Castle-sense certainly did. He was harder to read than any suspect, even the most recalcitrant across the table, mute and unforgiving. It was painful to know that, unless his father was after no more than his son's fortune, Castle didn't want anything to do with the man—understandable, but painful none-the-less.

And when she'd tried...What was going on? He wouldn't look at her, even as he guided her out onto the street. She'd given him an out, and he'd just retreated into himself. She watched him for a few minutes as they meandered back up the avenue, soft flecks of snow falling down around them only to melt on the sidewalk beneath their feet.

She couldn't send him off to the meet up like this. She'd said they'd do something fun, but what the hell was that supposed to be? Dinner hadn't helped, and she didn't think he should have more alcohol. The only place she'd think of taking him was the Haunt, and it probably also wasn't a grand idea to flaunt his own wealth in front of him right now. And without those options, what should she do with a mopey, unreadable, frustrating Richard Castle?

"You don't have to do this," he mumbled after a few minutes.

Her eyes swung back to his face. "Do what?"

"Entertain me. I can find somewhere to camp out, pass time," he shrugged, hands in his pockets, still walking more than a foot away from her.

That really should have been the first flag. They rarely walked anywhere without being attached by the shoulders, especially with the cold. And he took advantage of that little allowance as frequently as possible. So now, tonight, after the dinner and the looks, why was he all the way over there? She'd have to give herself permission later to ponder over just when a foot of space had become 'all the way over there.' But she had more pressing matters to attend to.

"I'm not...entertaining you, Castle," she said slowly, coming to a halt. It took him a moment to realize she'd stopped, and he actually had to walk back to her. If he'd just make eye contact, she could figure it out, but he avoided her gaze, looked at the lamp post, at the small sheen of snow on the top of a nearby mailbox. "I just want," she gave a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through her hair.

That got his attention. "I get it," he said softly, taking a step closer to let a passerby walk around them. "And I appreciate it."

"No," she argued, finally finding his eyes. "I don't think you do."

His eyes narrowed and she watched in some alarm as that tick in his jaw wavered. He was angry? What had she done, other than hold his hand, squeeze his fingers, try to understand, open up, give him something to hold onto, no matter how small and nearly pathetic it was?

Oh. Oh, damn. That was it. She'd given him something, but it wasn't enough, and he thought that it was just...pity? Regret? Sympathy?

"Beckett?"

It was her turn to avoid his eyes, because the very thought that he would automatically assume that her care and compassion weren't genuine had knocked the wind out of her lungs, stung at her heart, pricked at her eyes. And when she was hurt, she lashed out. "What do you think this is, Castle? A pity date?"

His eyes immediately brightened, eyebrows raising. "Date?"

It knocked the anger out of her just like that; she quirked an eyebrow at him. "Figure of speech."

"Uh-huh."

"And to be perfectly clear—which I know we don't usually do—no. This isn't about pity. Date or otherwise." She watched some of that lightness come back into his face, the ease that had been missing at the end of dinner.

"I think you said date. I'm gonna go with that-"

"This is a lousy date, Castle." She stepped in closer to allow two men to pass them on the sidewalk, her face turned towards them, ever vigilant, hyper aware.

Which should have made Castle's touch at her elbow a foregone conclusion and not the complete surprise that it was. She startled, which made her fingers brush at his belt, shockingly intimate, lightning down to her bones.

"A lousy date?" he said, his voice rising in indignation.

She took in a shallow breath and shifted back, tried to get herself back on track. "You're supposed to show a girl a good time. But you're moping around."

"That's so sexist, Beckett. Why don't you try showing me a good time instead?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, felt her mouth trying to betray her with a smile. She twisted her lips and brushed the hair behind her ear, effectively dislodging the touch at her elbow. "Fine. You're on."

Glancing down the avenue towards the busy intersection, she mentally planned the route. "Okay, we need a cab. We're headed to 5th Avenue."

"Ooh. Where are we going?"

She slid her hand through his arm and tugged him towards the curb, hailing a cab as a couple empties passed. One stopped for her—of course—and she hustled him inside, giving the address to the driver.

"5th and 58th, please."

She leaned back against the seat and shot him a look, certain the cross streets would have tipped him off. But he was eyeing her with curiosity, his eyebrows knit.

"Ever see that movie with Tom Hanks—Big?" She knew she was sitting a little too close, but she was supposed to be showing him a good time, right? That was her excuse.

"Yeah. . .long time ago."

"I was eight when it came out-"

"Oh jeez, you seriously aged me, Beckett." He put a hand to his eyes and groaned at her. She laughed, biting her bottom lip at his theatre.

"Mm, how old were you?"

"If you were eight, that makes it...1988?"

"Good math skills." She watched his hand drop back to the seat between them; her pinky twitched toward his.

"I was..." He heaved a sigh and cast her a pathetic look. "Please don't make me."

She pressed her lips together, but let it slide. She knew exactly how old he'd have been in 1988. Older than her. "You remind me of him—Tom Hanks in that movie."

"Okay, that's the one where the kid wishes to be big and he wakes up the next morning and he's an adult Tom Hanks, right?"

"Right." She leaned in and felt her pinky hook over his, saw his head swivel around to look at her, confusion all over his face. "Just a big kid."

She was pleased to see the confusion melt from his face, replaced by a kind of childlike glee that made his eyes crease, those crows' feet that disappeared into his temples. She had to bite her cheek to keep from reaching out to brush her fingers through his hair.

Back on track, Beckett.

"When I saw it in the theatre, I was so excited about that one scene. I made my dad take me so I could do it too-"

"The big piano," he grinned, his mouth matching his eyes. "Chopsticks on the flat piano in the middle of FAO Schwarz."

She nodded. "We hung out all day long trying to get at it. Everyone was there. I never got a chance to play, but it did inspire piano lessons."

"You play the piano?"

"I can pick out some stuff," she gave out, shrugging at him.

"So you wanna play Chopsticks on the piano at FAO Schwarz? How cutely touristy is that?"

She glared at him, her hand flexing and inadvertently squeezing their fingers together. Castle was grinning ear to ear at her, the sight so very welcome that she couldn't even maintain the narrowed eyes, the scowl.

"I figured it was right up your alley," she murmured.

He laughed at that. "Yeah, okay, sure."

"So, you up for that?"

"Bring it on."

* * *

><p>The rest of the ride was quiet, and he was caught between focusing on the fingers she'd threaded through his and repeating the word 'Date' in his head, like the child she liked that he was. And that thought kept the smile on his face, wiped the doubt from his mind.<p>

There were always things to worry over with the woman sitting next to him, smile on her lips, body relaxed in the back of the cab she'd hailed with little more than a look. But even the thought of a wall he'd yet to scale and a murder board in his office couldn't erase the almost giddy delight of a 'date' and the idea that she actually enjoyed the fact that children's toys could excite him as much as a night at a bar.

"Castle?"

He jerked his head to look at her, surprised. He'd thought they were doing their patented, contented silence thing. And tonight it was infinitely better, because she was holding his hand—well, his fingers, but why pick at the little details?

"Hmm?"

She smiled, that tight smile that had replaced the eyerolls since she'd come back in the fall. He was rather fond of those. "We're here."

Ah. She was waiting to get out, and he'd just been sitting there like a love-sick dope. "Right. On to stage two of our date," he said easily. He leaned forward and paid the cabbie before she could even reach for her wallet, and then he opened the door and pulled her out of the cab.

She stumbled into him, toe catching on the curb as he gently tugged on her arm. He caught her and they stood there pressed together for a moment before she cleared her throat and stepped away. He should regret being too hasty but couldn't find the energy, not when her cheeks looked like that.

He smiled to himself and tightened his grip on her hand as she tried to pull away. She'd made it clear that she wasn't there to pity him, and she'd offered the digits on her own. There was no way he was giving them back now.

She peered at him, cheeks tingeing pink, whether from a blush—the one he loved to watch spread across her face and down her neck—or the cold, he couldn't be sure. Apparently she decided that he could keep her hand in his, because she turned and pulled him toward the store. It looked remarkably empty as they pushed the big doors open, and he realized that it was probably near closing. It had to be about 7pm.

They sighed in unison as they got through the second set of doors, warm air assaulting their bodies. Kate shifted on her feet beside him and her fingers squeezed his palm. He glanced over at her and caught her smile as she looked around.

"We should probably head up to the piano before they close," she said as his eyes strayed over her head to a large wall of laser tag gear. "We can look around on the way back, Castle."

He let her lead him up the escalator, his eyes bouncing from shiny toy to electronics to dolls, memories barraging his senses. Bringing Alexis here to pick out a doll for her first report card of straight As. Coming here to buy enough presents to spoil four children, letting Alexis pick five she wanted, and then going with his little girl to the charity drop at his mother's preferred theatre-run charity. Shopping here for himself, buying his daughter a stuffed animal so he could buy three remote-control helicopters before he'd graduated to the big leagues.

He glanced back at Beckett when he realized she was leading him up another flight of stairs. She looked dangerously amused and he assumed she'd been watching him remember. Though, if the soft look around the corners of her eyes was any indication, she'd been doing some remembering on her own.

He stopped short, bumping into her shoulder when she came to a standstill, a smile slowly spreading across her face. He stared down at the shabby, slightly dingy keyboard the size of two of his couches. How had he never dragged Alexis up here to do this, maybe when it was shiny and new? It would be a let down to bring her now.

Though, he had to admit that maybe the keys didn't really matter, not when Kate Beckett was dropping his hand to step gingerly onto the C, hands curling and uncurling at her sides. The key made a low sound, and she jumped, spinning nimbly in the air to face him, producing a louder, clearer, tone. If the sight of her jumping hadn't done it, the infectious grin on her face, sparkle in her eyes, pink of her cheeks certainly did.

He followed her lead and leaped to the A below her. His tone joined hers and they simultaneously frowned. A minor triad—how melancholy. She stepped up to the first sharp and he jumped again, turning their sadness into chordant joy.

"You know, this isn't the right chord for Chopsticks," she offered, stepping up to the D. He was rather impressed that she always got an even sound with those heels, though he really had no idea what the sensors were like beneath the well-loved plastic.

"No," he agreed. "But we could recreate every pop song pretty easily. How's your knowledge of chords?"

"Basic," she laughed, and he felt the tension in his chest easing with every laugh, every smile, every brush of her fingers. "But I'm game."

She returned to the C and he dropped down to the G, waiting for her nod. Together, they played four beats of a C chord and then shifted a G, a bit clumsily. Beckett seemed to know what she was doing, and after a few rounds, they were rather impressively keeping up the basic backing for anything.

His mouth fell open as she began to sing, her voice low to accommodate the only key available to them on the limited range. "Don't stop believin'," she sang, voice ringing throughout the upper floor.

He let her go through two lines of the chorus before joining in, chest filling up with the delight in her eyes as they sang together. Children. They were exactly like children—one friend cheering the other up, bringing him to something magical and light.

"You've got a nice voice," she offered after a few minutes of soft singing, cycling through Journey, to the Beatles, to Lady Gaga, which they both sang with some embarrassment, staring each other down.

"You sound like a sexy club singer in the 40s," he replied, feeling his eyes widen as hers did. That had come on stronger than he'd meant it to.

She laughed, the sound ringing out just as an employee stepped up onto their floor, looking guilty. A young kid, maybe 22, with shaggy brown hair smiled at them, big hazel eyes lit up, he presumed, at the joy on his partner's face. How could you look at that woman with anything less than boundless wonder.

Oh, man, he was a goner. He was such a goner. Boundless wonder? Honestly, Rick.

"Sorry, sir, ma'am, but we're closing," the kid said, his voice a little rough.

"Right, of course," Beckett said, hopping off the keyboard and extending a hand toward Castle.

He almost fell over himself in his haste to take her outstretched palm. She was extending it, out in the open, in the presence of another person. He'd do whatever it took to catch her fingers, even tripping over his own two feet, which he did rather spectacularly. But reach her he did, and he let her guide them past the grinning kid and back down the stairs, across the floor, through the aisles, down the second escalator.

All the while, her fingers held his, palm to palm, her cheeks flushed with exertion and happiness. His own were warm and his body felt light. Could they do this in a few years, some little child, all dressed for bed, clinging to her hand, eager for a 'late night' adventure to the big piano to play a lullaby? Kate would probably roll her eyes, tell him it was far too close to bedtime to traipse across the city, but the little boy, with her eyes and his hair would pout up at her, begging her to listen to Daddy.

He could be a father again.

His breath quickened at the thought, and then another realization crashed into the first, pushing the phantom little boy and Kate's reluctant nod, her tight-lipped smile right out of his head. Father.

This child could have grandparents—more than one—three. His mother. Her father. His father? He slowed to a halt beside a large, red, colorful kiosk with a beleaguered employee leaning against the counter.

"Castle?" Beckett asked, turning back to him, twisting herself so their hands didn't jerk. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head, unsure. The melancholy he'd felt all day was creeping back across his mind, mixing with the bizarre, aching, unfounded hope for a family with a woman who'd just held his hand for the third time in four years. It was visceral and real, a strange desire, juxtaposed with an ancient hurt that left him winded, completely unlike the breathless happiness from three floors above.

"Castle," she repeated, her other hand straying to his arm, bringing his thoughts back to her.

His eyes scanned toward her face, but stopped, his inner child glomming onto the first thing it could to escape the questions on her face, in his head, in his heart. Muppets. You could make your own Muppet. They simply had to. It would be fun, and distracting, and would keep her with him, so he could sort out the fantasies in his head, the heartache of a child who never hurt, the hope of a man who hurt for a woman who hurt.

Her eyes followed his, and, with a reluctant sigh, she shifted to stand beside him. "Muppets."

* * *

><p>She headed for the kiosk, discovering that it was an entire workshop through which this was the portal. The woman at the counter was giving her a death stare, so Kate checked her father's watch, sighed.<p>

"It's well-past closing time," she murmured, turning her head to look at him. "And you have to meet. . .soon." He nodded, as if it didn't truly matter to him, so she hooked her arm through his and steered him away. "Next time."

His arm pressed hers against his side, he brought his other hand up to cover her fingers. "Next time," he echoed, and something in his voice sounded both hollow and rich. As if he'd been gutted out by whatever it was he saw in his head.

Muppets? Well, all right. "Did you see the new Muppets movie?" she asked, just to keep the conversation going as they stepped out of the toy store and into the night.

"Of course. Three times."

She grinned, trying valiantly to tame it down, keep it under control, but it broke all bounds, smeared across her face as she walked beside him. She felt his chest rumble against her shoulder (when had they gotten quite this close?), and then he was humming with pleasure.

Kate glanced over at him and saw his gaze fixed on her smile, clearly pleased with being able to bring it about. She gave him the moment, then reached over and tugged on the lapel of his coat.

"We can get a cab back. So you can get going."

"Yeah," he said, but he was still watching her.

Kate rolled her eyes at him, automatically trying to put some distance back between them. She headed for the curb, waiting on a cab to pass, drifting slowly north, watching Castle amble after her.

When a yellow cab came into view, Kate stepped down, lifted her hand; there it was. Feeling a little silly after playing around in the toy store, she held the back door open for him, nodding him in. Castle gave her a look, rolling his eyes back at her. Even the cabs stop for you. She knew it, she could read it in his whole posture; he shook his head and got in the cab first.

She followed, felt her body slide in against his as she shut the door and the cab peeled away. Castle had apparently already given the address and the guy was in a hurry.

She debated leaning forward and informing the man she was a cop, just to slow him down a hell of a lot, but they probably didn't have enough time for that.

It was creeping up on 8:30 and she figured Castle would want to get there first, prepare himself. A bar called the Dead Poet on the Upper West Side was their meeting place; she felt her stomach muscles clench in nervous anticipation, just for him.

Kate reached out and grabbed his hand, because if she was feeling like this, she couldn't imagine how it loomed for him. The distraction in FAO Schwarz, which she felt rather proud of, had done wonders to relax them both, but now that it was nearly in front of him-

"So, Castle." She tilted her head and glanced at him, for a moment caught in the way the lights of the city flickered over his face.

"Hm?"

"Ah, so. Did I show you a good time?"

He barked out a laugh and gave her a wide grin. "I might call this the least lousy date I've ever had."

"Damning with faint praise, Castle." She glared at him, felt her fingers accidentally slide between his. Totally accidental. Still, she didn't let go.

His grin turned soft, even while his eyes sparked with something else, something hotter. "Give me something to gush over then, Beckett."

"Gush," she murmured, her voice entirely opposite of what she'd intended to go for here. Scoffing just wasn't coming to her. "What are you—a girl?"

"Do girls kiss on the first date?"

Her mouth dropped.

Castle laughed at her again, his eyes predatory; this wasn't the man who'd morosely sat across from her at dinner. This was the man who'd teased her while they skipped from key to key on the piano in FAO Schwarz, the man who'd gotten that look in his eyes when they'd left, like the next time they'd be there, it'd be under entirely different circumstances.

At the wedding, hadn't it come out of her mouth entirely of her own volition?

Third time's the charm.

"Some girls do more than just kiss on the first date," she shot back, steeling herself for it.

He grinned back at her. "I'm not one of those girls, Kate."

She bit her bottom lip, entirely too thrilled with this conversation (for her own good). "Hm, that's good to know. My respect for you-"

He snagged her hand and pulled her in closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulder. For a hug. Not exactly what she'd expected, but-

"Will you come with me?"

She turned, found that his head was tilted down towards her so that their mouths were aligned, close, and she lost track of the question, everything, as her gaze flickered from his mouth back up to his eyes.

She felt his breath catch under her palm; she'd somehow rested her hand against him for balance, or maybe to push herself away, and now she could feel the wild stutter of his heart.

"What?"

"Come with me."

"Castle," she sighed, pushing back, loosening his arm, breaking the spell. "You don't want me sitting there while you have what can only be the world's most uncomfortable conversation."

"We've had a few of those already, so what's one more?"

She had to smile at that, a slight one, and shook her head at him. "No, Castle."

"Just. You could just sit at the bar. Moral support, Beckett."

She raised her eyes to him, was immediately done in by the need in his face which belied the off-handed tone. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll sit at the bar. Where you can see me. Nurse a drink."

He gave her a relieved grin, leaned his head back. But of course, Castle's more immature nature reared its head in a second. "Of course, if guys start buying you drinks, Beckett, I might have to do something about it."

"I'd be insulted if you didn't," she said back. Because she knew. And he knew as well, didn't he? There was nothing else for it.

His hand slid back into hers, squeezing. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>The bar was nothing special, but nothing shabby either. And he couldn't pretend that he didn't enjoy the title, despite the circumstances for encountering it. Why, of all places, his father had chosen this place played in his mind, spinning stories like the ones he told himself as a child.<p>

But his father was not a writer, a world-class poet, an academician playing with words like Rick so enjoyed. No, his father was a washed-up actor who was more likely to beg him for money than embrace even his littlest finger.

He'd been staring, he realized, as Beckett's fingers tugged on his.

"Castle?" Her voice was tentative and he found the strength to release the bar from his view and turn it instead to the radiant woman beside him. The look in her eyes sent him reeling and he opened his mouth, catching flies.

"Come on, let's go in. I'll buy you a beer, send you to a table, find a spot at the bar," she said gently, guiding him inside, her hand tugging on his.

He followed her, he always did. But tonight there was no dead body, no mystery he wanted to solve. He didn't like the mystery presented—wanted to turn around and rewrite the ending. He'd take the dead body. Hell, he wasn't ashamed to admit that at this moment, even with the woman beside him stroking the back of his palm with her thumb, he'd take the damn tiger instead.

She led him to a booth, tugged on the lapels of his coat, watched as he got himself together enough to take it off and slide onto the bench. She squeezed his hand one last time and turned to walk away. He reached out at the last moment and snagged her hand back, needing...something. He didn't know what. But now, far away from the toy store and the cab and the warmth of her body pressed into his, he wasn't ready.

Would it be cowardly to run? Cowardly to force her to sit with him? Cowardly to drink himself to oblivion? For a man so comfortable around people, he found himself utterly at sea.

"I'll have them send you a drink," she said, her voice soft, softer than he could remember. "And you'll be fine. I'll be over there." She waited for a response, but he was lost in her eyes, telegraphing things to him he was too agonizingly distracted to read. Damn his father on new levels. "Kay?"

That brought him back. "Thanks. I'll...We'll get coffee after, my treat," he managed, wanting something to give back.

Her face softened even more and she smiled. "Sounds good, Castle. Take some deep breaths. You got this."

And then she was gone in a swing of hips and a gentle toss of hair, and he sat there, staring at the other side of a dark wood booth, under a hanging lamp, hands clutched together on the deep brown, scratched table top. This place had character, but it was subdued, unlike the Haunt, vibrant and full of life and stories.

This place only held stories no one wanted to hear. Or maybe it was just him. He seriously considered slipping out the back, leaving his coat, his phone, his...woman, partner, girlfriend, Kate here. But then the waiter was sliding a mug of his favorite beer onto the table and stepping away.

In his absence was the figure of Kate Beckett, sitting on a barstool, jean-clad legs crossed, elbow on the bar, head in her hand, eyes watching him. He sat up a little straighter, bolstered by that quiet confidence. He hoped he gave her the same feeling when they were out facing down guns. Shocking, what a simple look could do.

What it couldn't do was block the profile of a man lumbering into the bar, stooped, balding, rubbing his hands together, puffing his cheeks to warm up. His father.

He didn't have to flag him down. His father came all on his own, eyes lighting up in recognition as he spotted him in the booth. There was no hesitation there, just jovial anticipation as he neared. His stomach didn't fare nearly as well. It plummeted at the easy gait and unfettered face.

"Rick Castle?" the man asked as he came to a stop on the other side of the table.

He nodded and unglued his mouth, some part of him willing away the overwhelming doubt. "That's me."

The man grinned, and Castle caught a little bit of his own smile somewhere on the long, round face. His eyes looked like the ones he saw in the mirror, his hands as well. And the grip as they shook felt like a carbon copy of his own. Facts he tucked away, squirreling them into his mind for the book he'd write someday. He just didn't know if this man would play a villain or a hero.

Though, as he sat down, unwrapping his scarf and unbuttoning the brown ski jacket he wore, Castle thought maybe he'd be a nobody. A blip. A second. A sentence.

"I'm Charlie. Call me Charlie. You look just like your book cover," Charlie said, his voice low but kind, normal. Not the crackle of a voice over a space-to-earth connection. Not the boom of the announcer for the NCAA. Not even the graveled voice of a chain smoker who sat as a fat cat at some big Mafia hang out. Just a normal man, a washed up actor.

"Guess so," he managed. It felt like a blow, to know that his father knew him as a picture on a book. Though, it was better than the nothing he'd known of the man across from him. "You look like..."

"You, a little," Charlie said with a small laugh. "Though you look a lot more like Martha than me. Got her full head of hair." If nothing else, Castle could laugh in Esposito's face tomorrow. It was the little things, really.

Castle was about to say something about the hands—pathetic conversation to be sure—when something caught the light, a glint. A wedding ring.

"You're married," he said, his mouth finding the thought before it had really sunken in. Pathetic and abrupt. He was doing a fine job of behaving like a careless, hurt child, wasn't he?

"Oh, yeah," Charlie said with a slight cough. "Forty-four years in a few months."

The physical blow was greater this time. Married. Married for longer than he'd been alive. He glanced sideways, looking anywhere but at the man across from him, and he caught Beckett's eyes, trained on them, concern on her face. She'd probably seen the ring before he did. She caught those things.

"Listen," Charlie said, leaning in. Castle braced himself, turning back to the man while a small corner of his mind filed away the fact that they folded their hands in the same way. "I was wondering if you'd consider coming to this Gala thing my wife's doing. Tables, you know? And you could bring people. Be a way to...spend some time. It's not too expensive, goes to her company—corporate oil consulting business trying to go green...you know how it is..."

But he wasn't really listening anymore.

A sentence. A blip. The tap of a key. Delete. Delete. Delete.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Far from the Tree**

**Disclaimer: And they, the two, overthrew the entire ABC studios and gained power. And then woke up, from a weirdly connected dream.**

**Author's Note: **A co-authored story by **Chezchuckles** and **FanficwriterGHC**.

* * *

><p>Kate's chest clenched when she saw that look on his face.<p>

She knew he'd thought he was prepared for this; she'd heard him say it would probably be a man riding his coattails for money. But she knew Castle. He wanted magic. He wanted a story better than the ones he'd spun for himself as a child, and even though she had tried to be sure he knew better—and he did know better—she could see the crashing disappointment on his face.

She found herself leaning towards him, her full drink cradled against her chest, her eyes glued to him-

Until a man stepped into her space. Beckett startled backward, elbow hitting the bar, blinking up at the dark-haired stranger, incredibly annoyed at the smarmy charm dripping from his too-white smile.

"What's a beautiful-"

"No," Kate said quickly, glaring at him. "I'm here with someone."

"Honey, he left you alone-"

"NYPD, back the hell off," she growled, yanking her cardigan and coat aside to show him her badge.

The man held up both hands and stepped slowly away, looking at her like she was insane.

Fine. Now that he'd moved away, Kate had a clear line of sight to Castle again.

Not good. Seriously not good. She saw the stiff line of his shoulders, the way he held his neck, chin tucked in like he was protecting his jugular. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, but more than that, he'd lost the light she'd managed to put back in his eyes tonight.

A man skirted around her, looking like he'd meant to give her wide berth but had been forced into her orbit by the crowd at the bar. She flicked her eyes to him and realized the word was getting around that she was a bitch. Good, less to deal with.

She leaned back on the bar, elbows propped up, waiting for a clue from him. Should she? She wanted to. She thought he looked like he needed it. But this was an intensely personal conversation he was having and-

Nope. Decided. Beckett turned to the bartender, caught his attention and ordered another two. When they were placed before her, she handed over cash and slid off the stool, heading his way.

She saw Castle do a double-take when she came closer, gave him a wide and encouraging smile. Kate placed his beer in front of him, pushing away the empty glass, then bumped his shoulder with her hip for him to scoot over.

Castle was staring up at her; the man across from him—his father—looked confused and off-balanced by her arrival. Good that. She wanted him off his game, whatever it might be.

Beckett nudged Castle's shoulder again and he hurried to comply, his hand coming up to her elbow as she slid in beside him. She made certain that the guy across the booth saw the shield on her hip as well, even pushed her coat back as she sat so he could catch a glimpse of her weapon. Judging by the look on his face, it did the trick.

Castle's hand dropped from her elbow, but glanced her thigh on its way down. She turned to him with another smile, extra confidence in her gaze, trying to let him know she had his back.

"How's it going?" she said, completely unafraid of barging into the middle of Castle's father-son time. She turned to the man and reached across the table, offering her hand. "I'm Kate Beckett. You're Rick's biological father."

She offered the word biological like a slap, felt the quiver in Castle's body next to her. A quiver of laughter. A pleased warmth bloomed in her chest.

"Ah. Yes. Charlie Sykes," the older man said, and took her hand.

It threw her a little, feeling Castle's strong, broad palm, thick and long fingers attached to the balding, characterless man in front of her.

"Mr. Sykes," she said. Injecting formality into the moment brought back the appropriate sense of distance between the man across from them and the man at her side. Much better. She wanted to take Castle aside and remind him that he didn't owe this guy anything, that in fact the opposite was true.

Castle was leaning back against the booth. When her hand dropped back down under the table, he grabbed her fingers and squeezed.

"You guys getting to know each other?" she asked, figuring that Castle could follow her lead on this, just like every other interrogation they'd done together. She could already feel his body relaxing against hers.

Charlie was bobbing his head. "Yeah, yeah. I was just telling Rick here about, ah, my wife."

She'd noticed the wedding ring the moment the man stepped into the bar, but now she knew that was the cause of the look on Castle's face. Which meant, taking a logical deduction, that the man had been married when...

Oh, Castle. She squeezed his hand back and turned her best neutral face to the older man across the booth. He was still looking at her as if she were a complete mystery, entirely unreadable, and she liked it that way.

She didn't care a whit if he thought her rude for interrupting. This was for Castle.

* * *

><p>If he'd thought his father's blunt, abrupt approach to asking for money was surprising, it was nothing to seeing Kate Beckett stalk across the bar to barge into their conversation. And if that wasn't enough, she was squashed in beside him, hand in his, silent strength and all poise.<p>

Charlie, Mr. Sykes, didn't seem to know what to do with himself. He blinked a few times, in a way that reminded Castle of Alexis. He twitched with the thought and Kate's hand tightened on his. Hell, Castle didn't know what to do with himself.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Sykes?" Kate asked, her no-nonsense voice strictly in place. It wasn't the angry, accusatory or steely voice she saved for the interrogation room, but it was the voice that told him to stop pitching theories, or threw a heavy hand at an uncooperative secondary suspect.

"I used to act," he said, tugging at the collar of his button down. Wow. She'd made him overheat already. She was good. "Now I run a consulting business for actors. It's how I, ah, came back into contact with Martha."

It was his turn to blink. He hoped to God that didn't mean that his mother...Kate's hand released his to settle warm and heavy on his thigh and he let out a breath. No. His mother wouldn't sleep with a married man, much less his father, now. Castle sighed very quietly. He kind of deserved a slap for that one, wondered how karma would treat him for thinking so little of his mother in that moment.

"Sounds like a good profession," Kate said, bobbing her head. "Getting back to your roots. I can understand contacting Rick now."

His hand found hers on his thigh, threading their fingers back together. He didn't know how to thank her for this one. How to show his gratitude for the amazing woman beside him; it couldn't be any less awkward for her to sit there and talk with them, nor was it her responsibility.

But something welled in his chest, something beyond his love for her, beyond his repressed feelings and desires. It felt...like the feeling of Alexis spending time with him when he was down—that deep gratitude that shot through to his gut, his heart, a physical sensation of love. Familial love, deep, lasting love that relied on nothing but feeling. Not romance. Not infatuation.

"Castle," Kate said softly, bringing him back.

"Sorry," he mumbled, caught off guard. He could extol the virtues of the extraordinary woman to himself, alone, later.

"Yeah," Charlie, Sykes, the man said, flustered. "Right."

"I think it's great," she continued, her voice lighter. But Castle knew that tone; it was the leading tone, the one she used when she went in for the kill. "Connecting now, after all this time. What made you realize?"

His father shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, and Castle almost felt bad for him. Almost, but for the complete lack of response. The man's eyes swung this way and that, thinking, searching for a good answer. Castle wanted to know, but even this story wasn't quite enough to quell the urge to simply walk away. But Kate was there beside him, so he settled back, waiting him out.

"I saw the movie promoted," Sykes said finally, his eyes drifting around the small booth, trying not to settle on either one of them. "Martha was mentioned, and I remembered, and the dates just...fit, you know?"

Maybe it was the truth. Lame story. DNA replica testing would have been better. Oh, wow. He was five. Certifiable and five years old. "Makes sense," he offered.

Kate's head turned but he didn't meet her eyes. He suddenly just wanted it to be over. Wanted his father to come out and say, "I need money," so he could say no, or write a check, just get out. What man only made the connection now? It wasn't as though Castle hadn't been in the paper before.

"And I thought, you know, we should meet. Flesh to flesh, you know?" the man said nervously.

"Well, it's nice to meet you," Castle offered, his voice tight. "I don't know if you have questions..." he trailed off, since it really should have been the other way around, but his father didn't seem to be getting there.

"Just..." the man's gaze flitted to Kate. "Just whether you'd like to come to the Gala, meet my wife, your...stepmother."

"What Gala?" Kate asked, innocent. She didn't fool Castle, but Charlie turned a dazzling smile on her.

It looked just shy of his own and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something, grunting, moaning—a sure sound of displeasure.

"My wife works for an oil consulting firm that's looking to go green, and we'd love it if you and Rick here could join us, maybe buy a table. Nothing extravagant, but, well, Rick Castle, what a name, you know? And then she could meet him. It would be great," he said, petering off at the end, as though he'd only just realized what he'd said.

Castle glanced at Kate, found her jaw tight. She was pissed. So was he. A name. He was just a name. Good, at least they were even. With that thought, he didn't really know how to tackle it now—how to keep up conversation when it was already over. Kate however didn't seem to have that problem.

"How long have you been married to...Mrs. Sykes?"

He'd already answered the question, but Charlie didn't seem surprised to hear it again. "Forty-four years," he replied slowly.

"Does she know?" Castle asked. It would make a difference, a big difference, to what this man was asking. It was disappointing either way. But if his wife knew, maybe there was some good in there somewhere. Some distant desire.

Charlie paused, took a breath, looked between them. "You're the one he writes the books about," he said. Defensive tactic at its best, and you just didn't use those with Kate Beckett.

Castle felt her shift next to him. "Yes," Kate said easily. There was no more interrogating to be done. They had their answer, and Castle was winded, done.

They were silent for a long time, staring at each other, Charlie's eyes skipping between them. "It's complicated," he said, his voice small, guilty.

It wasn't a sound Castle wanted to hear, wasn't a sound he wanted in his DNA.

And he didn't care, didn't care, didn't care. But this was...delete. Blip. Walk away. It was too much, and he was tired. Tired of pretending this was anything more than a desperate plea for money. Just walk away.

"You know what," Castle cut in, breaking the staring match between his father and his...Kate. He wondered idly if Charlie could see the steel in her gaze the way he could. "If it becomes uncomplicated, let me know. But I'm sorry, I can't be money for your wife if she doesn't even know I'm your son. Kate?"

He turned to her, releasing her hand and pushing very gently on her thigh. She caught his gaze for a very brief moment, eyes bare, angry for him, hurting for him...he couldn't think about the last emotion he saw there. Not tonight.

She nodded after a brief moment and stood, grabbing his coat for him, slapping a few bills down onto the table from her pants pocket.

She glanced at the bar, where he saw the bartender holding up her jacket. He'd marvel at the fact that she'd raced over to his table fast enough to forget her coat later. She looked between them and he gave her a little push. She stepped away reluctantly, turned and made her quick way across the room.

He looked down at the man at the table, tired eyes, slumped shoulders, defeated. But then he met Castle's eyes. He took a breath, opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut, shaking his head. Whatever he'd thought to say wasn't worth sharing, and for the first time in his memory, Castle wasn't even the slightest bit curious.

And then Kate was back, leading him from the bar, out onto the street.

* * *

><p>She slipped into the sleeves of her coat, felt Castle's hands land on her shoulders as he pulled it up. Kate turned and he tugged her lapels together, bringing her in close. Before she could apologize, before she could move away, he was pulling her against him, his forehead to hers, his hands between them.<p>

She felt his deep sigh against her cheek, brought her hand up to slip between his and the material of her coat.

"Not here," she murmured, and used her knee and a hand to get him moving. Not while his biological father still sat in the booth.

Castle seemed to understand, because he turned and led her out of the bar, hand clenched around hers. He threaded through the press of people as she followed, watching the wide set of his shoulders for a sign.

Once back out on the sidewalk, they made their slow way southeast, by default the direction of the precinct but only as a middle ground, equal distance between their two places.

When she thought she'd left it long enough, Kate took a breath. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault that he turned out exactly like I expected."

"No," she said softly. "For barging in."

He shrugged, her hand rising and falling in his with the action. "It wasn't...there was nothing to barge in on. He was hitting me up for money."

"I'm sorry," she said again, only this time, it was for that. For his father turning out to be so very mundane. Ordinary. "You're not going to that event, are you?"

He turned his head and gave her a tired smile. "No, Kate."

She nodded to herself, felt their arms bump her hip, then his as they walked. She stepped a little closer, wondered if he remembered his promise.

"Coffee?" he asked.

She grinned at him, inordinately pleased that he had. "Yes. I'd love that."

He released her hand, brought his arms up suddenly to wrap around her shoulders and tug her into his chest. She went without question, somehow needing the touch, the envelope of his arms, just as much as he needed to do it.

"God, Kate."

She breathed him in, eyes closed, knowing they were that irritating obstacle in the middle of the sidewalk but not even caring.

His mouth was at her ear; she felt him shudder as if working out the last of it, expelling it through his very body. Kate curled her arms up his back, pressed closer even though she shouldn't, she ought not to; she didn't care.

She didn't need to even go up on her toes to reach him, didn't need to move at all. She just turned her cheek into his, let her lips glance along his jaw before settling on the corner of his mouth, a kiss.

His breath startled against her, arms tightening. She stayed close, hovering there, waiting, and he gave them the moment of suspense before brushing his kiss over her expectant mouth.

A light touch, a promise, and then he was gone.

She opened her eyes, found him watching her. Clearing her throat, she slid her arms down, drawing back, tried to regain some equilibrium. His hand caught hers before she could go; she squeezed back, hanging on.

"Coffee," he said quietly, and he was looking at her so tenderly, being so careful of her, that she came back, came back into him, pressed her forehead to his shoulder and let herself recover there instead. Against him.

"Your heart is pounding," he murmured.

She nodded.

"Mine is too."

Kate gave a startled breath of laughter, managed to take a step back, still close but not quite so undone.

"Coffee," she reminded him, and then nudged him forward down the sidewalk.

* * *

><p>It was like a ping-pong game. No, a wrestling match. No, a boxing match. There. A boxing match took place in his mind's eye, emotions warring, desolation with joy, love with regret, disappointment with absolute, mind-bending elation. Because he'd just kissed Kate Beckett. Hell, she'd made the first move.<p>

Their hands swung between them as they ambled up the sidewalk, the silence calm and collected around them, though he'd swear jolts of electricity were flashing from his body to hers. He couldn't seem to get his face to settle into anything other than a dopey grin, and when he glanced to his side, decided not to bother.

Her lip was pulled between her teeth, withholding the same smile. It looked so good on her. And he'd put it there. She'd put it there. They'd...

He shook his head, clutched her hand tighter.

"How you doin'?" she asked quietly a few blocks later, leaning into him against a gust of wind on the quiet street.

He shrugged. "Over the moon," was not the right answer. He was, but beyond the kiss and the ensuing rush of feeling, was something confused and twisted that he really didn't want to discuss.

"Back to normal, you know?" he said, catching the look she sent him. "Almost normal," he adjusted, knocking their hands against her hip.

She laughed quietly, and his chest eased, some of that tension falling away, replaced with a giddy feeling. He didn't know if anything would change after tonight, but he didn't care. As long as she smiled like that every so often, maybe let him keep catching her hand while they drove, met up after work, he'd be fine. He'd discovered long ago that a little went a long way.

"What is normal for you, anyway?" she teased, stepping closer as they jogged across the crosswalk, headed for the Starbucks a block away.

He'd love to take her somewhere less...commercial to sit down, but an open coffee shop at 10pm was a stretch.

But the glint in her eye, the lilt of her voice—this, he could do. "Are we going by your standards?," he asked, releasing her hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders in a fit of boldness, spurred on by the sly grin on her face. "Your normal man is a stiff. Should I be worried?"

He held in a breath, waiting, but she didn't rebuff him, remark or gesture. A little went a long way, but sometimes the pull was more than his control. And the way her arm curled along his back, fingers twisting into the edge of his coat pocket, well controlled pleasure on her face-

"Killing you would be so counterproductive," she said on a beleaguered sigh, completely for his benefit. "And I enjoy a challenge."

"Are you saying I'd be easy to take down?" he asked as they slowed to a halt outside the door to the cafe. He didn't want to let her go.

She looked up at him, her arm retreating, and he met her eyes. She smiled, her hand rubbing against the small of his back for a moment, before she was stepping away, ushering him inside, standing flush against him as they waited on line.

"I don't think you'd be easy," she offered after a moment. There was a beat of silence, in which he opened his mouth, and she silenced him with a mere look. "But it's not like I couldn't cover it up."

"That assumes that the boys and Lanie would help you. And I'm insulted that you think so little of their affection for me," he said, stepping forward, crowding her into him as he left only a small space between her hip and the rack of take-away bags and mugs.

She didn't shy away, didn't move to push him back. Their arms were squashed together and she fiddled with the sleeve of his coat, the back of her palm rubbing against his.

"What boys and Lanie? I'm thinking of Gates," she said, her voice light and playful.

He groaned. "Well that's just not fair. You can't use your connections like that."

"Says the man with a guy everywhere."

He scoffed and grabbed her hand. "Don't try to pretend that you don't like that. After all, my guys have solved a couple cases over these past four years."

She looked up at him and he watched a number of emotions, memories, flitting across her eyes. He hadn't truly thought that one through. The mayor had instated him on her cases. His friend had helped find her mother's assassin. His connections alternated from criminals to dignitaries, and though they'd all done some good over the years, there had been a lot of hurt in between. Hurt to the woman currently tugging him up to the counter. He'd been distracted by the depths of her eyes, too caught up to notice.

"Grande skim latte, two pumps sugar free vanilla, and a grande peppermint mocha, please," Kate said, releasing his hand to fish around in the pocket of her jacket.

He had the money on the counter, correct change and all, before she'd even managed to find hers. She didn't fight him, just smiled at the kid across the counter and led Castle back toward the pick-up area.

He felt like he needed something to say, a way to cushion that last comment.

She beat him to it. "What you really need is a guy in the DA's office."

"Why, because then I trump your Gates card?"

She shook her head, smiling. "No, because then you trump Gates."

"Ah. So it's all a power play? Could I get us a new car?" he asked, mind jumping to fun conclusions.

"Stick with charming the Captain first, perks come later," she laughed, reaching out to take their coffees, gesturing toward an open couch against the wall with her hip.

They sat and he stifled a startled breath as she plopped herself down flush with his side. He shouldn't have been surprised, but everything felt new and surreal. The whole night flashed in snippets, and even the thoughts of his father were littered with pictures of Kate, flying to his defense, no horse, no badge, just Kate. Just the woman beside him, guzzling scalding hot coffee like it was water.

"What kind of perks?" he asked. His voice was huskier than he'd intended, and she turned to meet his eyes, a smile on her lips.

* * *

><p>The coffee didn't help.<p>

She was beyond tired, the kind of edgy, buzzed exhaustion that hit her after a takedown on a long case. She knew the feeling well enough, and she knew better than to add caffeine to it, but the order had been out of her mouth before she'd really thought it through.

Tonight, this kind of tired was due mostly to Castle.

The day hadn't been unduly stressful—the short, productive interrogation and subsequent booking had been the worst of it—but she had then spent an inordinate amount of energy maintaining the delicate balance of her and Castle's relationship.

Dinner was a tightrope walk, the toy store was pure exhilaration, the bar and meeting with his father was a see-saw tipping back and forth between protective indignation and close-lipped sorrow.

She meant to get them back to common ground.

Then maybe she shouldn't have led him over to the velvet-upholstered loveseat and sat so close. Maybe she shouldn't still be holding on to him, their clasped hands resting on his thigh so that every time something new struck her, some other facet of this, her fingers twitched and stroked the line of his quads.

Maybe none of this should be happening at all if she truly wanted to take things back to how they were.

But there was no going back from this.

Castle leaned over and settled his coffee on the low table in front of them, then slouched back and propped his feet up, his arm on the back of the couch, just touching her shoulder. She had a flash of insight—the form of him sitting in her living room, doing the same, and how she'd grow annoyed by those heels scuffing up her table but that would never be enough to kick him out.

Such was Castle. He was always coming in and propping his feet up in her life, scuffing things up, dislodging her carefully arranged room, making himself at home. Annoying, endearing, irreplaceable-

None of this was helping.

She shook his hand off and raked her fingers through her hair, sat forward a little so she wasn't pressed against his side, flush from shoulder to knee. She knew it didn't present that great a picture, that she looked like she was...doing what she was doing.

Distancing herself.

Only. She didn't want to be doing it.

She should, but she didn't want to. She wanted to be selfish.

And then she chickened out and stood up instead. "Want something to eat? I'm starving," she said, turning back to look at him once she'd gained her feet. She saw clearly the shutter fall over his face; she had hurt him. She was going to hurt him worse than this if she pulled back now.

"We didn't really eat dinner," he said carefully, then stood up himself, grabbing coffee. "Let me make us something."

This was a test, wasn't it? He wanted to know if her aborted move was truly what he thought it was—re-establishing the barrier—or if she had only been about to get up.

Kate studied his face, one hand curling at her thigh as she fought for self-control. Courage. Something. "What are you going to make?" she said instead, a way to postpone the inevitable.

He shrugged. "I'll find something."

Back to her. Her shot. Her move.

She didn't want to pull away; she wanted to hold his hand. She wanted to sit with him all night while he did or didn't talk about that terrible meeting with his father. She wanted to listen as he spoke, spun stories, joked with her; she was tired of it always coming back around to her. Herself. The obstacle in their path; the one who kept them back.

Forget it. Being with him also meant him being with her. Equal parts. Partners.

"What do _you_ want to do, Castle?" she asked instead, standing before him and knowing he understood it was more than just dinner or coffee.

His eyes lifted slightly, only a brief blink of movement, but then he was stepping in closer to her, their bodies nearly touching, and his hand came up to stroke his fingers over her cheek, reverent and resigned at the same time.

"I want you to come home with me," he said, softly, and his voice threaded through her body and drew her up, close, tight, mending all the broken places.

She breathed.

"For dinner," he added finally, a last exhalation against her lips that she couldn't refuse.

Because he'd said, quite clearly, exactly what he wanted. And still-

he'd given her a way out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Far from the Tree**

**Disclaimer: Overactive imaginations and time for writing are all you need. Though, we wouldn't mind having ownership too…**

**Author's Note: **A co-authored story by **Chezchuckles** and **FanficwriterGHC**. Complete.

* * *

><p>It occurred to him, as he watched her walk into his apartment, holding the door for the woman with the odd, nervous, contented smile, that he didn't have any food to make. Shopping had been his responsibility this week, and with the case and the disruption of the meet up, he'd forgotten.<p>

It looked like he'd be making a romantic, game changing dinner of pasta and improvised sauce. Fantastic.

"No one's home?" she asked, spinning around to face him as he closed and locked the door, something finite in the gesture.

He couldn't quite read the expression on her face, couldn't decide if the idea of an empty loft made her nervous or excited, happy, sad, strange, mysterious. "Ah, no. Alexis is at Paige's for the night and Mother went…out." He sighed and shed his jacket, tossing it onto the chair by the closet. "Probably wanted to give me space."

Her eyes softened and then she walked toward him, smoothed down his collar. "I've got the coats. Get cooking," she added after a moment. They were staring, and she broke the spell, which was probably for the best.

He wanted to slide her jacket from her shoulders, caress her skin, clutch her back against him, revel in the little steps they'd taken. But they needed food, and he wasn't going to push her. The fact that she was here at all, hadn't really retreated, hadn't stopped the hand he wound between hers in that last taxi—it was enough for now.

He made his way into the kitchen, frowning as he grabbed a pot and filled it with water. Of all the things to forget, it had to be food. He liked feeding her, liked knowing that she was full and healthy, somewhat by his hand. Independent Kate Beckett could take care of herself, but she had this habit of forgetting, and with so little else to do for her, he took pride in keeping her nourished.

It sounded pathetic in his head as he found the pasta and container of garlic cream sauce he'd forgotten Alexis had whipped up. But, as he turned and found her leaning against the counter, watching his progress, he thought maybe it wasn't so sad that he took pleasure in providing what he could. She did look good in his kitchen.

"Pasta and garlic sauce. Really?"

The sarcasm in her voice threw him for a moment. Garlic. Oh, well, damn. "If we both eat it, we're on even footing," he defended, tossing the congealed mass into a second pot to warm. Seemed classier than nuking it.

She raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, choosing instead to wander forward and pour herself a glass of water. More pleasure surged through him at the sight of her, domestic and in his kitchen, heels forgotten somewhere by the couch.

"Water's boiling," she observed a few minutes later, still standing close, now leaning against the counter by the stove, the island no longer between them.

He startled, having been caught up in his confused head. So little had changed since the afternoon, yet it seemed like everything was different. Him. His life. His family. His woman. Kate Beckett, not his woman. His partner.

He shook his head and turned the burner down a notch, poured the pasta in, watched it froth. Something nudged his hand and he looked down, finding her extending a large spoon to him. He took it with a little smile and swirled it through the water, added a pinch of salt, let the process of cooking try to straighten out his mind.

"You're quiet," she observed.

His eyes flew to hers. She looked relaxed, thoroughly, no trace of hesitance there on her face, like he'd seen at Starbucks. She was just…Kate, glass clutched in her hand, socked foot scuffing the tile, hip propped against his counter.

"Thinking," he shrugged, honest. What use was hiding anything from her? She always knew. "You're quiet too," he added. Two could play at that game; she was thinking too. He hoped it was good thoughts, good feelings, good…anything, if it meant she'd stay here, dressed down in his loft, that soft smile on her lips.

She bobbed her head, took a sip, observed him. "Must be that connection thing," she said, twinkle in her eye, waiting for him to remember.

Connection? Well, they'd always had that. He didn't need to remember the specific moment to appreciate the comment. And appreciate it he did. As did his hand, which moved to tuck an errant curl back behind her ear. They both watched his arm retreat. The physicality, the freedom of it—he hoped, if nothing else remained after tonight, that would survive. Hugs, fingers, lips, ears, hips, touching. These little things were so satisfying, so normal, so real.

She opened her mouth after a moment to say something, but instead took a step forward, her own hand shooting out to turn down the heat on the stove. The pasta had boiled over in his distraction, but it was hard to care, not with her knuckles now pressed into his stomach against the cotton of his shirt.

* * *

><p>Still quiet, but at least they had food. She smirked at him over her pasta, could taste the garlic at the back of her throat even though she'd tried to go light on it.<p>

They'd sat at the table, which she was grateful for, but honestly, the expanse of dark wood and the chill coming in through the window wasn't the best. It only made her gravitate towards him, seeking warmth. When she finished the last of it, scraped her bowl clean (she'd resisted the plate when he had tried to hand it to her, reached past his head, brushing his chest, to get a bowl instead), she took her dishes back to the sink and rinsed them, loaded the dishwasher.

He came around behind her and did the same and suddenly they were both fed and there was no excuse anymore.

"Wine?" he asked. They'd had water with the pasta.

She shook her head because she didn't think she wanted to be any more disoriented tonight than she already was. Also, she wanted to kiss him, garlic or not, and she needed her wits about her.

Yes. She wanted to kiss him. She was in this. No way to stop it now.

Castle stood in his kitchen looking a little lost, but she dried her fingers off on the dish towel and laid it on the counter. Kate took a step toward him, ran her tongue over her hard palate just to check, but he'd said it first. Since they both had garlic...

"Castle?"

"Yeah?" He sounded relieved, as if he'd been wanting to say something to prolong the evening, but he didn't know what, or how.

"Did I show you a good time?" she asked slowly, bringing her eyes up to his, taking the time as she did to peruse the slope of his chest, the cut of his shoulders, the hard-swallowing line of his throat.

He stared at her a moment.

She stepped closer, brought her hands up to his waist, let her thumbs hook into his belt. She liked the pin-striped dress shirt, liked even more the way it gaped open at his neck. Liked even more the way he was looking at her, both surprised and hotly aroused.

"You haven't answered my question," she murmured, raising an eyebrow. "Did you have fun tonight?"

"In between other things? Yes." He was struggling with a smile; she wondered if that was because he was still brooding over the man who called himself Castle's father, or if it was because she was standing so close and throwing off his game.

She liked the latter.

"So." Kate stepped into him, felt her hips brush his, canted towards him as she steadfastly looked at his face. "Since I showed you a good time. How about you put out for me?"

He gasped, actually sucked in a lungful of air and stared at her as if she had grown another head, and she laughed at him, felt it bubbling in her, all this delicious, compelling excitement.

Kate slid her palm up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Don't tell me you're not one of those girls, Castle. Because we both know you are."

He was dumbfounded in his stare, completely silly with it, and she grinned, felt even herself how evil her smile was, and slid her other hand up to join its mate behind his neck.

And then she tugged.

His mouth crashed down to hers, too much, but they jerked at the startling collision of lips, fell back to regroup. He breathed hotly against her cheek, his eyes too close for her to see clearly, and then she found her courage again and touched her mouth to his, lighter, caressing, questioning.

He murmured her name against her lips, pressed into her for a long moment that felt familiar (a dark night in front of a warehouse), and then he touched his tongue to hers, both of them seeking more at the same moment, startled by the moist heat of the kiss.

She pushed and felt his back hit the counter; she leaned forward and her body slid in between his legs, pressed too close, too good. She drew her hands down to his chest, resting there in closed fists, stroking his bottom lip as the kiss heated.

And then she pulled away, pushing off his chest. She meant only to pause the moment, take a second to breathe, but her hips tilted forward when she leaned back, his eyes slammed shut on a grunt and she had to clench her hands around his shirt and bite her lip to keep from throwing herself-

Damn.

She sucked in a breath and tried to carefully peel herself off of him, but Castle tightened his arms and kept her there.

She was willing to wait it out.

He watched her for a long time, his breathing rapid, his mouth moving as if he had something to say that wouldn't come.

So she said it for him.

"I should go."

He eased his grip on her waist and she took a step back, not entirely out of his arms, but giving them breathing room.

Castle sighed, leaned his head down to hers to brush his lips over her cheek, light and barely there. She pressed her cheek into his, wrapped her arms around his back to hold on. Just for a minute.

"I think now I can say you showed me a good time, Beckett."

She laughed against his chest, felt his hand gentle at her lower back, his thumbs running against her spine. His eyes had shifted from dilated dark blue to a starker, pale powder. She watched him turn inward in a moment, the laughter gone.

"Don't think about it," she said gently. "You met him, you know what he wants. You don't have to do anything more."

He lifted his gaze to her, gave her a chagrined sigh, his hand pressing flat against her back, bringing her in closer. "I know. I should be thinking about how to keep you here instead."

"How about we let you keep your virtue for now, Castle." She waited until that registered, gave him a sly grin.

"I'm all for ruining my reputation, Beckett. If you wanna have a go at me. Get me alone somewhere without a chaperone."

"Don't I already have you alone without a chaperone? Unless you count garlic sauce as a chaperone-"

His chest rumbled under her hands as he laughed, giving her a breathless look at his happy and relaxed face: the crinkled eyes, the crow's feet, the way his smile sliced clean through and made everything seem good. They were good.

This was good.

And she was staring at his mouth. She should stop. She flicked her eyes back up to his, and he was smirking.

"You should go," he said softly, and his hands pushed on her hips a little to get her moving.

She backed away, trailing her hands along his arms to meet his palms, their fingers tangling. She didn't want to leave; he already had her convinced to stay. But-

"Later, Kate."

She chewed her bottom lip, studied his face. He'd just met his biological father, just discovered the man's true intentions, just had his stories turned upside down, proved wrong.

Kate shook off his hand and lifted her fingers to his jaw, traced the line of bone that resembled his paternal genetics, then touched her thumb to his bottom lip.

He watched her, intent on her, waiting for her conclusion.

"You're a good man," she said firmly. "No matter who he is, you know who you are. I know who you are."

She didn't know if he meant to do it, but he was showing her all the naked vulnerability at the back of his eyes, all the years of name-calling bullies and lonely boarding schools.

"Who am I?" he said roughly, his eyes bleeding need.

"You're my partner," she answered. "You're mine."


End file.
